by Tom Holt
‘Um,’ Len replied. ‘I haven’t actually got an account with you, but . . .’
‘Cash, then,’ the voice on the other end of the line said. ‘That’s fine, if you can just drop by at the office. Soon as we’ve got the money, I’ll get the stuff to you.’
Money. Curse. Len sat down, frowning, and applied his mind. He was going to need rather a lot of the stuff, and he had the idea that Neville wasn’t good for that much, even if he sold his collection of CDs and his cowboy boots. What to do?
Fool. Now you’re starting to think like a human. What do you do if there’s something you need, but haven’t got? Easy. You make it.
So he called up another supplier and ordered a hundred feet of seven-eighths brass rod, which Neville’s Visa card could just about afford without selling anything. When it arrived, he sliced it up into nine thousand six hundred discs, each an eighth of an inch thick; a job which took the machine just over three hours. While he’d been waiting for the brass to arrive, he’d milled up two hardened steel dies and adapted the machine’s vertical feed to make a high-power press. Add a knurling wheel in the power tailstock, set up a simple automatic feed and collect the resulting newly minted pound coins in a sack as they’re spat out of the hopper at the back end, while phoning the supplier for more brass rod with the other hand.
At the end of a very boring but rather productive day, he had six plastic dustbins full of the things, which solved one problem. He’d also drawn up the plans, worked out the quantities and ordered the materials. There was another spate of thefts by the sandman, and then he was ready to start.
First, he pressed the body shells out of eighth-inch gauge-plate, ending up with something that looked like a space-age suit of armour, or C3PO’s party frock. Next, the action parts, milled from titanium and carbon steel. The frame next; mostly high-tensile aluminum alloys and stainless steel - foul stuff which produces long strings of razor-sharp swarf, like a garrotter’s cheesewire suddenly come to life. The fiddly bit came next - lots of electrical contacts, cut out of material as soft as butter and as sticky as mud, bogging down the cutters and causing Len to dredge the undersilt of Neville’s memory for a wide selection of abstruse synonyms for ‘Bugger!’ After that, there were odd bits and pieces; bearings and bushings and gaskets and the like, which had to be pressed out of compacted phosphor bronze, a process remarkably similar to building a suspension bridge out of tapioca pudding. There were a few setbacks, the odd broken cutter and misaligned hole, further ramraids from Mr Sleepy, a shortfall of precision-made little brass discs that had to be made up before the suppliers would part with a lousy few grams of nickel barium, and a rather ticklish moment when a homicidal strip of knife-edged swarf chased him three times round the workshop before wrapping itself round the chair. Nothing, though, that he couldn’t handle. Piece of cake, really.
Man’s reach may exceed Man’s grasp; but it doesn’t take Einstein to come up with the idea of a pair of lazy tongs. The question which kept on hammering away on the inside of his mind was, Since it’s so easy, why haven’t They ever done this?
All the components made; just a question now of putting it all together. He laid the parts out on the floor of the workshop, consulted the diagram and set to work. It helped, of course, that he’d taken the time to think it all through beforehand, so that everything could be fitted together without needing six pairs of hands and a seventh to catch the little flying springs and tumbling grubscrews. Even so, when he thought of the hash his predecessor had made of his version of the same basic concept, he couldn’t help wondering how the guy had got into this line of business in the first place. Someone who tries to make high-quality precision machinery out of a length of second-hand rib must be either bizarrely imaginative or as thick as a triple-decker sandwich.
And when it was all done, the end product sat up, opened its eyes and spoke. What it actually said was, ‘Doctor Frankenstein, I presume,’ but Len can be forgiven for that. He’d been working non-stop for seven days and hadn’t had much sleep.
Maria looked at the screen like a cat watching a mouse and wondering what kind of tin-opener it would need to open it. She wasn’t entirely sure she’d got the hang of being human herself; being present at the birth of a sentient limited company wasn’t something she could easily take in her stride as being one of those things that just happen. Presumably it was quite rare. For all she knew, you could go weeks at a time and not see one.
Sorry, the screen said. No offence. I thought you were the human; you know, that dolly-bird type with the laminated fingernails and vacant expression sitting just underneath you.
‘That’s me too.’
Is it? Oh . . . Isn’t that a bit unusual? Being a painting and a human at the same time?
Maria shrugged. ‘I think so,’ she said. ‘But I’m new at this game myself.’ She smiled. ‘I think we’re both in pretty much the same boat. We can learn together, if you like.’
Gosh. Can we? That’ll be fun.
‘Funny you should use that particular word,’ Maria replied. ‘Fun. Or rather happiness, as in pursuit of, I get the impression that’s what we’re here for.’
Really?
Maria nodded. ‘Seems to be. There’s no other possible explanation. You’re the clever one, you think about it.’
All over the world, KIC computers registered a massive power surge as countless millions of bytes tried to puzzle it out. Maybe you’re right, the screen mused.
‘I’m sure of it.’
Now then, let’s consider this properly. The screen turned up its brightness a little, and covered itself with a dazzling display of graphics, which flicked by so fast that all Maria got was a bewildering impression of lights, shapes and primary colours.
‘Is that you thinking?’ she asked. ‘All the pictures.’
Presumably. I suppose I think in pictures. Oh hell, have I said something rude again? I didn’t mean to.
‘On the contrary, I think that was a compliment. You were saying we’re far better at getting a message across than mere words. Or you can say things in pictures that words can’t express. Or maybe it’s just because you’re only a few minutes old and haven’t even got as far as Peter-and-Jane books yet.’
Maybe. Right, here goes. On the one hand we have human beings, right? On the other hand, there are all the other things which do roughly the same things as humans; like animals, or paintings, or limited companies, or God. There’s about - hang on, computing, will whoever it is in Los Angeles please get off the line, there’s some of us trying to think - about nine things they all have more or less in common. Some of them can do some of them, others can’t, but let’s call them the parameters.You getting all this?
‘Getting in the sense of writing it down? No, sorry.’
Getting as in understanding. I can do graphics if you’d prefer.
Maria frowned. ‘Stick to the words,’ she replied. ‘I don’t know if there’s anything in the rules about pictures looking at pictures, but it doesn’t feel right, somehow. Maybe it makes you go blind.’
Please yourself. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, there’s these nine parameters. And what are they, I hear you ask.
‘No you don’t.’
Huh?
‘I didn’t say anything.’
Try keeping it that way, will you? I’ve diverted the traffic control computers for the whole of Toronto to do this. One lapse of concentration and there’ll be tailbacks as far as Winnipeg. All right, I believe the nine parameters to be the ability to make things, the ability to communicate, a limited lifespan, sentience or intelligence, a lack of serious inhibition or limitation—
‘That rules you out, then. You’re a limited company.’
Sorry, I thought you were interested. I’ll shut up now.
‘No, please go on.’ Maria grinned sheepishly. ‘I seem to have acquired this impish and frivolous personality from somewhere and I haven’t quite got the hang of turning it off.’
All right. But try an
d keep it under control, will you? Each time I get interrupted, it plays merry hell with the Dow Jones Index.Where’d I got to?
‘Limitations.’
Ah yes. Or inhibitions.That’s number five, isn’t it?
‘No, six. Sorry, yes, five. Go on.’
Six is the ability to co-operate with others, seven is infallibility, eight is freedom from moral restraint, which is just six in fancy dress now I come to think of it, but so what? That’s eight. Nine . . . Got it. Nine is the ability to initiate action, as opposed to only doing what you’re told to do.What d’you reckon?
‘Great,’ Maria replied. ‘What’s it for?’
I shall pretend I didn’t hear that. Let’s start off with God, shall we? God can make things and communicate, but he’s not limited by lifespan or any physical limitation. He’s sentient and infallible and can initiate action, but he’s severely restricted by moral constraints and he can’t co-operate with others because there aren’t any others like him to co-operate with. Animals can co-operate and initiate action, and a few of them can make things; beavers, for instance—
‘They can make lots of little beavers, for a start.’
Now look what you’ve made me do. Thanks to you, half the phones in Tokyo have just gone dead.
‘Pleasant break for them, probably. Sorry, promise not to do it again.’
Apart from those two or three things, animals don’t really signify. Now pictures can communicate - that’s what they’re for - but so long as nobody sets fire to them or stores them in a damp cellar they’re as near as dammit immortal. They can be perfect and without limitation: you know, beautiful women and handsome men, and the fact that if the artist gets the anatomy wrong they’d probably not be able to breathe if they were actually alive doesn’t affect them in the least.
‘Tell me about it,’ said Maria, with feeling.
Quite. Finally, your painting has no moral constraints whatsoever. Probably explains why you keep interrupting me.
‘Hm?’
No respect, you see. Now us limited companies make things, we communicate, we’re immortal so long as we stay in profit and some clown doesn’t forget to file the accounts with the Companies Registry, we’re sort of intelligent and don’t you dare say anything, but we’re restricted by all sorts of laws and regulations and human customs and assumptions; we can co-operate and we don’t really have any moral restraints, and we can initiate action like nobody’s business. No pun intended.
‘Or detected, for that matter. Oh, business, I see, very good. Go on.’
Finally, read the screen, there’s human beings. Obviously they’re mortal, they’re certainly fallible and limited as to what they can and can’t do like you wouldn’t believe. Mostly, the screen added, using bold face to signify bemused incomprehension, self-inflicted. Oh well, that’s their business, I suppose. And some of them are subject to moral restraints, and some aren’t. And there we are.
‘Absolutely,’ Maria said, yawning. ‘That really was frightfully interesting. And now you’d probably better turn the traffic lights back on in Toronto, before they start jumping out of their cars and hitting each other with tyre irons.’
Hang on, will you? The point of all this is, there’s one thing that only humans do, and none of the rest even try.You want to know what that is?
Maria nodded. ‘Very much. But you could have told me that without all this scientific stuff, and they wouldn’t have a huge carbon-monoxide cloud threatening to poison half Ontario.’
All right, Miss Clever. What humans do, and nothing else even tries to do, is pursue happiness. Now do you see?
‘Just a minute.’ Maria’s brow furrowed like a drawn curtain. ‘That can’t be right. What about animals? You ever seen a cat? They pursue happiness.’
They obey instinct. Genetic programming. Hardly the same thing as falling in love or collecting first-day covers.
‘All right, then,’ Maria persevered. ‘What about you? Don’t say you cry yourself to sleep every time you double your pre-tax profit.’
You may find this hard to believe, young woman, but making money and pursuing happiness aren’t necessarily the same thing. People confuse the two, but I can’t help it if the world is full of idiots.
‘Fair enough,’ Maria conceded. ‘And I’ll admit, you don’t get to hunt much fun when you’re a painting. But how about God? You’re not going to tell me . . .’
The screen went blank and flashed some graphics before the next words appeared. Do me a favour, they read. It may be that God pursues happiness, but only with a flyswat or a rolled-up newspaper firmly grasped in one hand. And as for His own happiness, just think about it, will you? Poor guy’s omnipresent, never gets a moment’s peace, lives His life entirely for others. You ever heard He’s got a hobby? Collects stamps? Builds scale models of alternative universes out of matchsticks? Even His son was immaculately conceived. Even actuaries have more fun than that.
Maria shrugged. ‘So,’ she said, ‘point taken. Only human beings pursue happiness. Actually, from what I’ve seen of them, they can’t do it terribly well, or why are they all so dreadfully miserable?’
Ah. There you have me. Maybe happiness keeps getting away. But they pursue it, which is the point. Likewise, it must be what they’re for; because when you look at all the other parameters, they’re not much good at anything else.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Maria replied after a while. ‘They make things, but machines do that much better. They communicate—’
But not nearly as well as computers, meaning me. If they could communicate worth a tinker’s cuss, there wouldn’t be any wars, for a start. They’re as moral as a barrelful of ferrets. They’re sort of intelligent, but me and God have ’em stuffed up a drain for brains. They can co-operate, but only for about ten minutes before they start fighting. Fallible goes without saying. The morality thing, too; who else but a load of born losers could come up with the pretty notion that burning people at the stake somehow makes them better people? They can initiate action, but it’s mostly a case of parking a bright idea at the top of a hill and then taking the handbrake off. No, it must be pursuing happiness, or what the Hell’s the point in them?
Maria sat for a while, staring at a point on the opposite wall a few inches above the top of the screen. ‘Fair enough,’ she said. ‘In that case, let’s go for it.’
Now you’re talking.
‘Assuming,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘we can ever find out what on earth it is.’
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Are you sure?’ Artofel said. The man looked at him. ‘Well, yes,’ he replied. ‘Of course,’ he added. ‘One hundred per cent,’ he concluded. ‘Why?’
‘It’s just . . .’ Artofel shrugged. ‘No, forget I spoke. Now then, have you decided which hymns you’d like?’
‘What were you just about to say?’ the man demanded. He seemed a trifle put out, and maybe a little thoughtful.
‘Nothing, nothing. How about you, Tricia? Any particular hymns you’d set your heart on?’
‘I don’t know any hymns, actually,’ the young woman replied. ‘Except “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”. That’s a hymn, isn’t it? I mean, it’s Christmassy, and Christmas is all religious, isn’t it?’
‘In a sense,’ Artofel replied. ‘Although, to be savagely frank with you, I’ve never really seen “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” quite as what you’d call a really sort of out-and-out, fully fledged wedding-type hymn. Speaking for myself, you understand.’
‘Oh,’ replied the young woman, her eyes accusing him of making difficulties. ‘What about “Jingle Bells”, then? Surely “Jingle Bells” is a hymn. It’s old, isn’t it?’
There was a moment of deep silence while Artofel engaged the four-wheel drive on his diplomacy. ‘It’s certainly more, um, in keeping than “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”,’ he replied cautiously. ‘I mean, of the two I’d probably go for “Jingle Bells” every time. On the other hand, maybe we could explore some other possibili
ties together and find something you’d like even more. Okay?’
The young woman shrugged. ‘Don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I’m not that bothered one way or the other. So long as it’s cheerful,’ she added, frowning. ‘I know, how about “God Save the Queen”?’
‘That’s in the hymn book, certainly,’ Artofel replied, pursing his lips. ‘Which means you wouldn’t have to have copies specially printed.’
‘And it’s got God in it,’ the young woman pointed out. ‘That’ll do, then. Now, about the flowers.’
‘Just a moment.’ The man raised his hand, like a small child wanting to leave the room. ‘I want to know what you meant by Are you sure? ’
‘Oh.’ Artofel rubbed his chin. ‘Look, I wish you’d forget about that. Just me sort of thinking aloud, really.’
‘Then think aloud some more.’
‘Is this going to take long?’ the young woman interrupted. ‘Only we got to sort out the flowers.’
Artofel steepled his fingers. He’d often wondered why vicars did that; now he knew. It gave them something to do with their hands other than strangling their parishioners. ‘What I was thinking was, look, obviously you two are very much in love, you’re perfectly suited, I know you’ll have a very long and happy life together. By saying Are you sure? I was just being a sort of—’
‘Well?’
Artofel swallowed. ‘Devil’s advocate,’ he said. ‘Now please, let’s just forget all about it and carry on.’
The man looked at him. ‘You don’t think so,’ he said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘You think it’s a bad idea,Trish and me getting married,’ the man said accusingly. ‘Why?’
‘No, no,’ Artofel said quickly. ‘Perish the thought, really. Really and truth—’